I think things are under control over here, except that I woke up at 6:30, prompted only by a dream in which the violin teacher from last night's recital was on a trip with my boyfriend and she'd packed a skirt I haven't even worn yet. It is a rad skirt, FYI, a black sweater-knit maxi a-line with a patterned hemline. So very me, so very out of season. I was really steamed about the skirt, in my dream. As I may have mentioned once or twenty times, I don't really get up at the sweaty crack, so if I'm wakeful and the sun's up and I check the time and it's not even 7, I'm likely to groan or mutter "bullllshiiiit."
But I don't mind it once I'm up. Even though the apartment has relatively few windows, they are placed such that this joint gets a lot of light. I'm on a busy commuter street and I like the white noise hum of polite Minnesotan traffic in the morning. I also have a door out to the fire escape that gives the illusion of balcony/access to the great outdoors. Then there's a skylight that provides easy inroads for insects and possibly bats, but it also supplies the cross-breeze that no one else in this building gets. I'm the only one up here on the third floor, you see.
The rest of the house is sort of busted and college-y in that nobody seems to be responsible for vacuuming the hallway and there is a potent stank cocktail of weed and air fresheners in all of the common areas. But up here in the garret/penthouse, I don't smell it.
I have a bed now, thanks to a comedy of errors that I will not describe, other than to say that when I move out I will be flinging the boxspring over the fire escape and doing a good deal of wall patching on my staircase. I also have a Staedtler drafting table that I found on the street. It did not specifically have a "free" sign on it, but if your stuff is near the curb it is fair game. I heaved it into my station wagon, as I have heaved so many free pieces of furniture before. (It is hard to imagine not having a station wagon, once you've had one.)
I have other assorted pieces of furniture but have yet to configure my rooms or my storage solutions. In a few minutes, however, I am going to attack the wack closet/crawl space situation with my drill and ingenuity. I have to admit that I like the fixer-upper challenge posed by moderate dilapidation. There is something hands-on-hips spunky about all of it. You're forced to see different possibilities and innovate (since simply pulling down lumpy, excessively patched walls and hanging new drywall is not an option).
I would like to know, though, how much my landlord is paying her painters, because unless they are indentured servants she is getting ripped off.
Here is a disgusting link to the wiki article about Rat Kings. Seriously, it's one of those things I probably didn't need to know about. Thanks to Em for grossing me out. And also to interested parties, here is a junebug. They really used to freak me out as a kid, and I can't say I've fallen in love with them since then. But then I'm not really a bug girl.
Uttered at dinner the other night, by Henry, to Jude: "Gimme back that stick, you mugger." Later H conducted us in a chorus of "Get Up Offa That Thing." I have a recording of him singing it on my cell phone, along with "Raspberry Beret." I'll balance the kid stories by telling you that Jude recently suggested that they use this weird little endangered species rescue toy vehicle to capture aliens. When asked what aliens were: "Aliens are somebody we don't know," he replied. "And they have a frisbee with a little door."
Also: running is not improving the state of my wee bunion. But then neither is wearing wood-soled 70s shoes.